There are few convergences within the Julian calendar that portend a force majeure with the same vicious accuracy as when St. Patrick’s Day falls both on a Friday and during Lent. Corned beef and cabbage — or fish? Madonna or whore? Three days of amateurish drinking and lewdity, fueled and volumized by the guilt of Lent. Lock up the cat.
But it’s Monday morning now and my people are hung-over and remorseful. That’s right, they’re lashing out. Fellow Irish descendant Bobby McMahon has written what is labeled a satirical piece in today’s Breeze, but it’s gone right over my head:
Besides his mother and the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Irishman’s wife is the most important woman in his life, and I couldn’t ask for a better mate than me lovely wife Mary. She’s a fiery redhead with good birthing hips and skin as pale as the moonlight, which I think has more to do with her rarely leaving the house than her Gaelic blood. Ya see, between the cooking and the cleaning and the pregnancy, there just isn’t a chance for her to go a’walking through the foggy meadow and get some sun on her face, making her skin whiter than the banshee. Tell ye the truth, I don’t think I’ve bought her shoes in the last 20 years, but then again, it’s not that far of a walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, so I don’t expect her to be complaining much.
Beats me. Full article here.